Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit, and n infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Merry Christmas!

CHAPTER TWO: SOHO CALLING

MI6 Headquarters,

The Circus,

December 24th, 1961

This place is like a tomb, Lexie thinks despondently.

They only bloody left me here because they all wanted to go home.

And Alexandra "Lexie," Doyle, first female M16 field agent in 12 years and finest shot in her class, puts her feet up on her boss's desk. Just for a moment, contemplates setting fire to her employer's headquarters. (She also contemplates curling up in the cloak room and sleeping her shift away with a bottle of mulled wine and some mince pies.) But, she reminds herself sternly, were she to do that then the complaints of that pillock Jim Bond and every one of his compatriots would be proved true, and her somewhat tenuous place in The Circus' personnel would be compromised. She might even have to-she shudders- go back to the typing pool, and if that didn't kill what was left of her will to live then nothing would.

So no, she tells herself bracingly, you will man the phones tonight.

Plenty of the people you don't detest are at home with their families right now because you're here: That's the sort of thing you should be proud of.

And, thus resolved, she nods to herself. Pulls out the small flagon of whisky she keeps in her hip flask and takes a sip. She sets the hip flask down beside her, hunting around to find the pack of mince pies which she suspects her boss has been stashing in his office and as she does, she suddenly hears The Phone go off. The big red one which sits on M's desk and which nobody outside of the Circus is supposed to have access to.

Ring, ring! It goes, but it might as well be screeching, so loud is it.

Lexie knows she's not supposed to answer it, and yet-

Ring, ri- "Code?" The young agent asks crisply, deepening her voice to make herself sound older.

If Bond and his idiot friends are having some fun at her expense then she'll be teased, but better that that her sounding rattled.

"Is that, is that The Circus?" A young man's voice sounds on the other end of the line, panting. His accent is rolling, his voice deep, and he sounds absolutely scared out of his wits.

Lexie refuses to be moved.

"Code?" She snaps again. "Code or I hang up-"

"Please!" The voice says. "Please, my name is Sigur Holmes and I'm being held somewhere in Soho. I'm- You can verify my identity with the current quarter master, he'll be happy to tell you who I am-"

"And what do you want from me, Mr. Holmes?" Lexie snaps, irritated by his continued lack of a code, as well by the sneaking suspicion that he's probably pulling her leg.

"I'm in a- at least, I think I'm in a club in Soho. It's called The Red Room. Ask at the door for Martha, she'll help you-" There's yelling in the background, men's voices, and then the distinct sound of someone being set upon.

Lexie frowns into the receiver.

"White rabbit," she hears Holmes' voice yell. "White rabbit!" And then the line goes dead.

She's left staring down at the phone in consternation.

For a moment she considers whether she's being played or not- bloody Jim Bond and his Neanderthal cronies- but then it occurs to her that, played or not, she now has a legitimate excuse to leave the Circus and get some air. White Rabbit is even an acceptable code word to ask for help, albeit one which expired a couple of days ago.

"It could be legitimate," she tells herself. "And I could really do with stretching my legs, even if it's only as far as the tube."

And so, her mind made up she fetches her coat. Packs away her various concealed firearms and reapplies her lippy, before heading outside. The lights of London's twinkle, christmas music riding on the air as she strides down towards the Embankment, looking stern of mien and fabulous of apparel-

"Mummy!" Sherlock barks, looking outraged.

"Well, I was," Lexie defends herself. "We both know you got your looks- and your brains, God help you- from me!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, about to bark a retort, but he's stopped by the lovely smile on Molly's face. He's stopped by the way she's looking at him. "Your mother's right," she says, her cheeks pinking becomingly. "You do get your looks from her."

Feeling both delighted and oddly harried by the warm glow these words bring to his chest, Sherlock gestures for Mummy to carry on.